My breath is measured
by each chime of the clock,
which marks not hours or minutes,
but each sliver of hope left behind
with each passing second.
Darkness closes in as I wait
for even the faintest light, inspiration
sent from I know not where, but
my plans are no match for this curse
that would steal from me all thought,
a crime that should not befall any poet.
This poem is my response to The Sunday Whirl – Wordle 548.
sliver – breath – sent – plans – hours – minutes
chime – drive – light – crime – match
Also shared with OpenLinkNight LIVE at dVerse ~ Poets Pub and Day 14 at napowrimo.net.